


(go home) find yourself happy

by aloneintherain



Series: devil in a sunday hat [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Gen, Guilt, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, mentions of norman osborn's usual brand of creepiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 10:42:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9604463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aloneintherain/pseuds/aloneintherain
Summary: “Good to see you putting in an appearance, Peter,” his teacher says. The class laughs. Peter shrinks in his seat. “Do you have a good reason for missing yesterday’s test?”“Uh.”I was kidnapped by a sadistic megalomanic who may or may not have a very creepy, very illegal obsession for mewouldn’t go down very well. Neither wouldI was sequestered away by local billionaire Tony Stark and then fussed over by a lawyer-slash-vigilante and his not-so-assholeish secretary.“I… caught a cold.”(Peter is kidnapped, tortured, and almost killed by the Green Goblin. When he reaches out for help, he's denied. This is the aftermath.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself (and a lot of other people) that I wasn’t writing a sequel… and then this happened. Somehow. Sorry?

 

Peter wakes tangled in too many layers. He struggles, disoriented and twisted in wet blankets, and his desperate strength rips the sheets. It’s only that the audible tear of fabric that makes Peter stop.

His heartbeat slows. Carefully, carefully, Peter pries himself out of bed. The sheets are soaked through with sweat and blood. His borrowed pyjamas are drenched. The dark red is alarming in the grey of the room.

The door slides open, and Peter skitters backward until he’s pressed against the headboard. His spider-sense is quiet, but he can’t rely on that. Bad things can happen without warning; if nothing else, Peter knows this much.

“Whoa, whoa!” It’s Tony Stark, hands held out in front him, unthreatening and not quite real in dark wash jeans and a charcoal blazer. “Relax, shutterbug. It’s just me.”

“Hi, just me,” Peter manages to say with his wrecked voice, “I’m Peter.”

Tony doesn’t smile. Peter doesn’t move away from the headboard.

“You’ve bleed through your bandages,” Tony notes. “We should get that fixed up.”

“I accidentally wrecked your blankets. I’m sorry.” Tony takes a step forward, and Peter can’t help but inch a little further away. “I should go before I bleed on anything else.”

“You’re staying here,” Tony says, brisk, and Peter finds it hard to swallow with his bruised throat. “You’re… God, kid, I can’t believe what you went through—”

Peter can’t do this. He’s tough, resilient to the point of superhuman. That radioactive spider gave him bones of steel and an in-built warning system. Peter can whether all kinds of storms.

But Norman is a different breed of monster and Peter’s too raw. The incident is too fresh. He can still feel the older man on his skin. He knows Norman’s touch intimately—hands encircling his throat, fists against his cheek, the ghost of fingers dipping into Peter’s mouth and venturing lower, exploring—

“I want to go home,” Peter says.

“I’m sorry, I can’t let you do that. I need to keep you for observation.”

“My Aunt—”

“Thinks you’re staying overnight at a friend’s house. You should call her. I don’t think she entirely believed my text.” Tony shrugs casually, and Peter breathes a little easier. There’s no pressure here. “I don’t understand how kids talk these days. You think I can imitate a 15 year old’s texting style?”

“My voice,” Peter says. He touches the hollow of his throat as though he can see the bruises that sit there.

Tony studies him for a moment. His expression is unreadable. “You should tell her.”

Peter almost jumps out of bed. “What? I’m—no.”

“You should tell someone.” Tony comes closer, one slow step at a time, and sits on the bed. Tension builds beneath Peter’s skin. He’s a cocked gun ready to fire. “An adult. Multiple adults, if you can.”

“Adults,” Peter repeats, incredulous. “I’m not a baby.”

Tony laughs a little, and Peter sits there, bleeding and offended all at once. “You’re fifteen.”

“I’m old enough.”

“You need people in your corner. Why do you think the Avengers formed?”

“Because that turned out so well.” Tony can’t hide the way he jerks, face twisting in a grimace. Peter almost wants to take the words back. The Accords are still a new wound. Peter was there for the airport battle, but he wasn’t there for the lead-up or the aftermath.

It must have been bad. There are more lines on Tony’s face. Peter doesn’t want to add to the billionaire’s stress, or put anymore grey hairs on May’s head, or let anyone else die because he was too self-absorbed to do anything.

He can’t bring Uncle Ben back, but he can do this much.

“You almost died,” Tony starts. There’s no snark in his words. “You almost died, and no one would’ve known. You need to reach out when you’re in danger.”

“I did!” Peter’s anger settles in like an old friend. “I called people, okay? I called two different people who I trusted to come help me, and neither of them could.” He scrubs a hand through his oily hair. He needs a shower. “That isn’t their fault, I know, they’ve got other important things they need to deal with. I’m alone in this, and that’s—that’s fine.”

“That’s not fine—”

“What do you want from me?” Peter’s torso feels wetter than it had before; his wounds must be bleeding freely. “I got nabbed by the Goblin, and he was going to kill me, and when I broke away and called for help, I got turned down. What—what was I supposed to do? I didn’t ask for that.” Peter presses a shaking fist against his temple. He stubbornly grits his teeth. “I didn’t ask him to hurt me.”

Tony puts a hand on Peter’s knee. “That shouldn’t have happened to you.”

“It did,” Peter says, and the words come out small and fragile. His hand hovers over the stab wound in his side. Peter feels the tightness in his throat, the ache of his burnt out nerves, and thinks, frantically, this happened to me.

Peter’s relatively new to being hero. Every experience feels new. He wonders if the joy at saying lives will ever ebb. He wonders if he’ll get used to being held down and ripped open.

“It did,” Tony agrees, only a hair louder than Peter, “and I’m going to stop it from happening again. Tell me what happened.”

Peter sits amongst the bloody sheets. New York is a sprawl of shadows and twinkling lights outside the window.

“Okay,” Peter says.

 

* * *

 

Tony’s doctor re-stitches his side. She doesn’t know who he is—not as Peter Parker, and certainly not as Spider-Man. He’s just another pale, faceless patient. That almost makes it easier. There’s no expectations here.

“You’re very brave,” she says when she’s finished, smiling kindly at him. Peter half expects her to offer him a lollipop. He wouldn’t turn it down.

Tony brings him clean clothes. There’s bandages around Peter’s throat, but the sweater has a low neckline. It’s baggy and a little worn and all the better for it. Secondhand clothes from his friends are his favourite.

Tony leaves to give him privacy.

 

* * *

 

Happy is waiting in the corridor when Peter emerges. “Tony left to go yell at the Devil downtown.”

Tony wouldn’t. Peter had told him what had happened in confidence. “What?”

“He was pissed. Said something about irresponsible Batman wannabes and left.”

“Take me to Hell’s Kitchen,” Peter demands. He crosses his arms and glowers at Happy, even though he kind of likes the other man.

“Nice try,” Happy says. “You’ve been beaten 10 ways to Sunday and the boss will kill me if I let you out right now.”

“I can lift trucks. Did you know that was I thing I could do? I might be able to throw them, too, I’m not sure. I never got the chance to try; New York isn’t the kind of place you can go around throwing trucks without hitting a building or twelve.”

Happy squints at him. “Am I being threatened right now? Is that what’s happening? Because, kid, I’ve been through some shit while working for Tony. Getting a truck thrown at me by a fifteen year old with two black eyes and what’s probably a dozen open wounds wouldn’t even by the worst part of my week.”

Peter presses on his cheekbone and winches. Foundation isn’t going to cover this. Peter can trace the swelling beneath his fingers. He shouldn’t go outside looking like this.

He’s going to anyway.

“I’m not threatening you,” Peter says, “I’m just saying, I’m very strong and very quick and very good at running around when badly injured.”

“You sure? You weren’t too great at it yesterday.”

Peter’s barefeet stick out of the oversized sweatpants Tony had gifted him. Peter studies his chipped toenails and says, subdued, “Gobby is the exception to the rule.”

Happy winces. “Sorry. That was—sorry.”

They stand in awkward silence. Peter rocks back on his heels. This is the kind of interaction he was hoping to avoid.

But he also can’t let Tony—protective, impulsive Tony, the man Peter barely knows but already respects so deeply—ambush Daredevil and take this whole mess out on him.

Peter heads to the stairway. He doesn’t have his mask. Maybe he could steal a paper bag and cut out eye holes. That worked last time, when he was with the Fantastic Four and without a mask. (Bombastic Bagman has his own wikia page. Peter has checked. Peter has been thoroughly humiliated by the immediate connection strangers on the internet had made between the weedy figure in a paper bag and a borrowed Fantastic Four suit, and Spider-Man.)

“Where are you going?” Happy asks.

“To the roof. I’m going to swing to Hell’s Kitchen.”

“You have a stab wound—”

“I’ve swung further with worse.”

Happy groans and scrubs a hand over his face. “For the love of—fine. Come on. Get in the car.”

Happy escorts Peter into a sleek black car, grumbling the entire way about teenagers. Peter climbs into the passenger seat. His knee bounces with nerves. Peter doesn’t know where Daredevil lives. Or his name. Or what the man looks like sans mask.

Happy takes him to a cramped apartment building. It’s deceptively ordinary. It looks like the kind of place the Parkers might have lived.

“Apartment 3B,” Happy tells him. “And when the boss gets pissy, you can tell him how you threatened to throw a truck at me.”

“It wasn’t a threat,” Peter says, but unbuckles his seatbelt and gets out of the dark sports car. He takes the creaky stairs two at a time, ignoring the sharp pain that flares beneath his ribs. It’s not difficult; Peter has experience ignoring wounds.

When he’s half way up the stairwell, Peter makes out the sounds of shouting through the brick walls. Tony’s voice is the loudest and easiest to recognise.

Peter doesn’t knock, he just bursts into the unlocked apartment and blurts, “Mr. Stark, please don’t take it out on them. It was my fault that everything happened in the first place—”

Tony takes up all of the room in the sparsely furnished apartment. He’s made himself bigger like a threatened bird, hands thrown out and hair tangled wildly. His gaze settles on Peter. His mouth opens. Peter knows what he’s going to say before the words form on his tongue.

“I am not going back to the Tower,” Peter says. He points a finger at the older man; you have to work the offensive with Tony Stark, or you’ll lose all ground. You start defending, and you lose all traction in the conversation. “You shouldn’t even be here. This is none of your business.”

“None of my business?” Tony sucks in hot air. “I found you shaking apart on a super-villain’s carpet. I got blood all over my new suit and the backseat of my car. I’m an Avenger. This is my business.”

“Um. Who is this?” Peter’s eyes dart to the other occupants of the apartment, two men in their early 30s that Peter does’t recognise. The blond is wide-eyed and chubby, long hair curling around his ears. The other has dark hair, the scraggly beginnings of a beard, and a bloody bottom lip. “I’m honestly not sure if I should be calling the cops or an ambulance, at this point.” The one with longer hair squints at Peter and then, with narrowed eyes, at Tony. “Or CPS, maybe?”

“That’s my line,” Tony snaps.

“Can you please not,” says Peter.

“You trespass onto my best friend’s property with no solid reason or warrant, and you actually want me to listen to anything you have to say?”

This man doesn’t look like Daredevil. He’s not tall enough, and for all his protective blustering, Peter thinks he’s harmless.

Peter focusses on the darker man, collapsed on the worn leather couch like his legs can’t support his weight. He looks bad—bags purpling under his eyes, cuts visible over his exposed forearms, a bruise darkening his jaw. There are stitches on his temple.

And his eyes—unfocussed and dark as they stare straight through Peter, blood red mouth open in a gasp.

“Daredevil,” Peter says. He tries out a crooked smile. “Howdy.”

Tony doesn’t react, but the blond man cuts off his tirade and stares at Peter. Quieter, as though frightened by the possible answer, he asks, “Who are you?”

“Spider-Man,” Daredevil says, and he sounds like he might cry. “Foggy…”

The other man, Foggy, stutters, “But you’re—you’re—”

“Yeah,” Tony says. “The Goblin almost tortured him to death yesterday.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Peter says. Foggy makes a sound like he’s been struck. On the couch, Daredevil laces his hands together and bows his head. If Peter didn’t know better, he might think the older vigilante was praying. “It was only some light torture. A sprinkling of attempted murder. A sprig of asphyxiation.”

Peter makes a complicated gesture with his hands. An illuminated billboard flashes across the street. It advertises life insurance in polite green writing. The fluorescent glow invades the apartment, marching in through the arched windows. It makes Peter’s eyes throb.

“I should have…” Daredevil begins.

“Yeah, you should have,” Tony says.

Peter crosses the room. He’s still not wearing shoes. The wood panels are cold beneath his feet. “It’s not your fault,” Peter tells the other vigilante. Daredevil’s face is open and wounded in a way that foregoes split lips and stitched temples. “You were too injured to do anything.”

Peter sits down on the couch, legs curling beneath him. The billboard casts Daredevil in sickly light. Bathed in an artificial glow, the vigilante is otherworldly and fragile.

“I knew you were young,” Daredevil confesses. “I told myself I was going to look out for you.”

“Good job on that front,” Tony says from behind them. Peter shoots him a glare. Tony looks steadily back at him. “Don’t, webs. This can’t happen again. It wasn’t supposed to happen in the first place.”

Peter picks at the skin around his fingernails. His healing factor normally takes care of his anxious habit, but it’s busy working overtime. His fingertips are left to peel and bleed under his ministrations.

“Yesterday,” Foggy begins. All the righteous anger has rushed out of him like a deflated balloon.

Peter bites at his thumb. He tastes anaesthetic and clean skin. Iron is a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.

“Yesterday,” Tony says, like all of Foggy’s anger has been transferred to him, “while you two were too busy braiding each other’s hair to listen to the kid calling you for help.”

Foggy moves past Tony and gets down on his knees in front of Peter. He can’t help but feel like an injured thing beneath Foggy’s searching stare.

“You were the one on the phone.” Foggy doesn’t say it like a question. Peter chews on his jagged thumbnail. “You were asking for help and I hung up on you.”

Peter lets go of his wet thumb. “You were a normal person nursemaiding a beat up superhero. There’s nothing you could have done. I contacted other people and they were busy, too. It’s not their fault either, it’s just the way things played out. The universe likes watching me squirm.”

He offers Foggy an uneven smile. Foggy lays a hand on Peter’s knee. “I’m not a superhero, but don’t write me off. I could’ve done something. I shouldn’t have hung up on you and left you to be—to be—” Foggy flaps a hand in the air. “—tortured by some ass with teeth.”

“The torture had already happened by that point,” Peter reassures with a burst of laughter that makes the three men distinctly uncomfortable. “Oh, right. Probably shouldn’t joke about that in front of you guys. Yikes.”

“Yikes,” Daredevil agrees, and this time, Peter’s laugh is more solid.

Foggy squeezes Peter’s knee, and gets up to make them coffee.

“I’m Matt,” Daredevil says, so abruptly that Peter startles. “Matt Murdock. That’s Foggy Nelson. We’re Attorneys.”

Tony doesn’t leave. He situates himself in the armchair to Peter’s left.

Foggy brings Peter a cup of coffee and a humble business card. “If you need us to wreck the bastard that did that to you, just say the word. Matt can do it physically. I can help him do it legally. Between the both of us, he won’t be getting back up again.”

Norman is a beast of a man. His teeth are sharp, his smile doubly so.

Foggy’s skin is soft and unblemished. Dirty blond hair curls around his ear. His eyes are gentle. When he looks at Daredevil, there’s a shine there that Peter can’t put words to.

Foggy can’t be in the same room as Norman. Peter puts on the suit to stop things like that from happening.

“No, thank you,” Peter says.

“Sorry,” Foggy says. “I blabber sometimes, but I shouldn’t talk about that so light-heartedly. Even though I’m not joking.” He points at the business card and then at Peter. “That’s not a joke offer. That’s a real offer.”

“Thank you,” Peter says again. Foggy hurries off to the kitchen to pour more coffee. Peter clears his throat. “I’m Peter, by the way. I go to Midtown High. I’m fifteen.”

A ceramic cup shatters in the kitchen. “Fifteen?” Foggy repeats weakly.

“Almost sixteen.” Peter pushes out his cheeks. “I’ll be a junior next year.”

Matt puts his face in his hands. Foggy’s voice is choked when he says, “That’s… that’s really exciting.”

Peter sips at his scalding coffee. He misses the way the three men exchange promising nods over his head.

 

* * *

 

 The next day is a Wednesday. His history teacher peers over her glasses at him.

“Good to see you putting in an appearance, Peter,” she says, and the class laughs. Peter sinks in his seat. “Do you have a good reason for missing yesterday’s test?”

“Uh.” _I was kidnapped by a sadistic megalomanic who may or may not have a very creepy, very illegal obsession for me_  wouldn’t go down very well. Neither would _I was sequestered away by local billionaire Tony Stark and then fussed over by a lawyer-slash-vigilante and his not-so-assholeish secretary._ “I… caught a cold.”

The teacher raises an eyebrow. “Another one?”

Peter shrugs helplessly. “I have a bad immune system.”

She lets him go. No one else comments on Peter’s absence, or the sickly pallor of his skin, or the way he keeps startling when someone accidentally touches him.

He’d briefly talked to May that morning, after Tony’s make up artist had covered up the dark bruises tessellating over his body. May had scolded him for not giving her more notice when staying at a friend’s house. He had apologised, and tried not to cling too obviously to her cardigan when she hugged him.

That afternoon, Foggy is waiting for him outside the school entrance. Peter glances around to make sure no one’s looking their way.

“No offence,” Peter begins when he sidles up to the attorney, hands clutching at his backpack straps, “but um. What’re you doing at my school?”

Foggy blinks down at him. “Oh, wow.”

“What?” Peter self-consciously touches his face. As intrusive as Tony can be, Peter really is glad for the billionaire’s help. His make-up artist had allowed Peter to go to school without being tackled by a whole fleet of social workers.

“No, no. It’s just—you’re so young.” Foggy waves a hand at Peter. “You said yesterday, but a backpack full of textbooks, the glasses… Is that a Star Trek turtleneck?”

Peter pulls at his dull gold sweater. He’d found it at a thrift store months ago. It had reminded him so starkly of the original series’ uniforms that he’d sewn a Starfleet command patch onto the chest and rank signifiers onto the sleeves.

Peter tugs at his collar. It’s too high to be accurate, but that’s not a problem; it helps hides the bruises and burns ringing his throat.

“I’m a sham. If I was in Starfleet I’d actually be in science division, not command,” Peter says like he’s confessing a great sin, “but I really like this colour.”

Foggy nods gravely. “I’d be a red shirt.”

Peter laughs, a little startled. “God, I hope not.”

Foggy loops an arm around Peter’s shoulders and steers him away from the school. Peter goes along with the man. His spider-sense is quiet, and even though the few interactions Peter has had with Foggy have been rocky at best, he feels almost calm around him. There’s something very light about Foggy Nelson.

Foggy looks both ways before guiding him across the street. Beneath the older man’s arm, Peter whistles. “Wow, kidnapped twice in one week. I’d say this is a new record, but this has absolutely happened to me before.”

Foggy retracts his arm and puts space between them. “Oh, god, sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Foggy runs a harassed hand through his hair. Peter feels like a jerk. “It’s just—where are we going? I didn’t think we really knew each other. Is Daredevil luring me into a trap through you.”

“Matt’s not the luring type. He’d rather ambush you in the middle of the night behind a dumpster with nothing but his fists and his lack of self-preservation to back him up.”

“Same,” says Peter.

Foggy ignores that. “I’m taking you out for food, my treat. You’re fifteen. You’ve got to like junk food. I’m thinking burgers and loaded fries.”

Peter’s wallet is depressingly empty. He had to chip into his meagre savings to buy ibuprofen. He usually doesn’t buy painkillers; he has to take much more than the recommended dosage because of his metabolism, and it can get pricey. But his throat, his torso, his _everything_ screamed at him when he woke up this morning, and he couldn’t avoid medicine if he wanted to sneak past May’s suspicious stare.

“I do like free food,” Peter allows, “but I’m still a little suspicious.”

They turn at the corner and the golden arches come into view. A group of kids jump around the feet of a harassed looking couple, waving their hands and babbling excitedly about chicken nuggets. Peter can relate.

Foggy shrugs as they enter the McDonalds. “Look, I still feel a little guilty about the other day.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I can’t help feeling bad.” Foggy gestures at the menu hanging over the counter. “Order whatever you want, okay? You’d be doing me a favour, eating with me for a little bit.”

Peter sighs but doesn’t argue. He lets Foggy order half a dozen things off the menu for him. He finds an empty booth and throws his bag down. Foggy slides in the other side and hands him his food.

Peter unscrews the top of his sundae and dips his fries into the carmel. Foggy makes an interested noise in the back of his throat and his own fries into Peter’s ice cream. Peter doesn’t stop him.

Across the restaurant, the muted TV switches to a breaking news broadcast. Foggy, plucking the pickles out of his burger and babbling about the first time he met Matt in college, doesn’t notice. Peter does. The carmel fries taste like rubber in his mouth.

Oscorp Tower shakes as the Avengers break into it mercilessly, shattering open windows and doors, pausing only to ensure the innocent workers leave without being harmed.

Norman Osborn looks as powerful as ever. Someone has grabbed him, handled him roughly; his tie is crooked and his suit is singed, and bruises are beginning to darken on one side of his face. His left pant-leg is soaked with blood.

But his suit is still buttoned, his hair still slicked, and his smile is still sharp and dangerous. Even as he’s lead through the front door of Oscorp building in handcuffs, press pushing into his space with microphones and cameras; even as the Avengers land in the background, Tony at the forefront, ready to raze Oscorp Tower to the ground; even as a police officer forces him into the back of a police cruiser, Norman Osborn looks untouchable.

Maybe it’s just Peter. Norman was just as wild and dishevelled a few days ago. Norman had sweated and sworn then too; he had looked just as bad, hovering over Peter, sliding a knife between his ribs, fastening his hands around his throat and murmuring promises between heavy breaths.

Even in handcuffs, Peter can’t help but think that Norman looks—looks—

“Peter?” Foggy touches Peter’s arm and he skitters back. Fries tumble out of his hands, spilling over the vinyl tabletop. Foggy follows Peter’s fixed gaze, finds the TV, and swears. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

Peter takes in the junk food spread out before him. He takes in Foggy, worrying at his lip and fixing his blond hair behind one ear, and shoves his sundae and wrapped burgers away. His stomach is full of cement.

“I have homework,” Peter says. He’s not sure how his dry mouth manages the words.

“Wait, shit, Peter—I’m sorry. Let me explain. Let me make it up to you.”

Peter gestures at the spilt out junk food. “Wasn’t _this_ supposed to be you making it up to me?”

Peter clicks his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to snap at Foggy. The attorney hasn’t done anything wrong. Tony or Matt probably insisted he distract Peter. They wouldn’t have wanted Peter to find out what they were doing until it was all over.

And they’re not wrong. Norman deserves to be arrested. He’s hurt a lot of people, broken a lot of laws, but there’s something about this that makes Peter’s stomach turn. Something about sitting in class while his friends broke into Oscorp’s lower levels, the place Norman took Peter apart piece by piece, and put their hands on Norman. Something about the not knowing of it. Something about how Peter doesn’t have any control or say into the way things are playing out.

Peter’s never had any control over Norman Osborn. He’s not sure why seeing Norman led away in handcuffs suddenly makes it hard for Peter to breathe.

“Peter…”

“Sorry,” Peter says. And then, “Thanks again for the food.”

He leaves through the front doors, head down, stomach churning. He doesn’t look up until he’s safely home.

 

* * *

 

 

During dinner, May says casually; “Norman Osborn was arrested today.”

Peter puts his fork down. He studies his plate, inspecting each chunk of tuna and area of burnt cheese. “Really?”

May hums. Her fork scrapes against the bottom of the ceramic bowl. “For a lot of really awful stuff. Human experiments, plans to make superhuman soldiers, not to mention a lot of holes in his finances…” May shakes her head. “I’m glad they got him.”

“Me too,” Peter says, hollowly.

“You were friends with Harry before he went off to boarding school. You spent a lot of time at Osborn’s place when you were younger.” May drops her fork and laces her fingers under her chin. She studies him over the dinner table. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

“I barely saw Norman when I was younger. He was always too busy with his business.”

“Maybe you should contact Harry? If I had Osborn for a father, I’d probably want to talk to a friend. If you’re shaken, imagine how he’s feeling.”

Peter has an photographic memory. Harry’s hair was the same shade as his father’s. They have the same pale, spindly fingers. Harry’s smile was open and gap-toothed, his face wider and more freckled, but sometimes, when something displeased them, Norman and Harry both cocked their head in the same birdlike manner and wrinkled their nose like they smelt something unpleasant.

“Maybe,” Peter says, and doesn’t call Harry.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter doesn’t shower until after May goes to bed.

He climbs out of the shower feeling less clean than when he stepped in. His wet fringe drips into his eyes. The whirl of the exhaust fan and his hitched breaths are loud in the nighttime quiet.

The shower washed the foundation from Peter’s skin. In the mirror, he can see every finger shaped bruise, every half-healed scrap. Under the intense bathroom lights, Peter’s skin is almost translucent. His veins are visible, stressed things spidering across his skin.

The phantom weight of a collar itches around his neck. Peter keeps reaching up to his throat without thinking, as though to pry away something that’s not there.

There are electrical wounds on the long column of his throat. The small burns are blackened indents, places where the collar had eaten away at his skin. A circular one on the hollow of his throat reminds Peter of a cigarette burn.

He towels himself off, slips on his softest, rattiest pyjamas, and downloads a browser extension he can tweak to replace every instance of _Norman Osborn_ on his laptop to _Assborn_.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s phone rings at a quarter to midnight. He’s under doctor’s orders not to patrol tonight—an order he’d usually ignore, if it wasn’t for his spider-sense humming beneath his skin, making him falter every time he goes to grab his backup spider suit.

Peter’s 80% certain it’s his old friend anxiety that’s setting off his spider-sense rather anything substantial. That knowledge doesn’t make him calm down, though. Every tingle of his spider-sense only makes his anxiety worse. Peter’s had a bad enough day as it is. If he goes out like this, he’s going to end up having a panic attack mid-bank robbery.

Taking a night off from patrol doesn’t make it any easier to sleep. His anxiety keeps catching on small things. He notices he missed a few history chapters at the beginning of semester, and he can’t remember if they were going to be in finals. He can’t remember which pages were relevant. Was he in class when the teacher went over the syllabus?

Peter decides to read the entire first half of the textbook, anyway, just to be certain. He hates history. It’s still better than the anticipatory quiet

He’s halfway through what must be the dozenth peasant uprising in early 20th century Russia when his phone rings. Blearily, Peter picks it up. “What’s up?”

“Spidey!” Johnny sounds frantic on the other end. _“Are you alright? What’s happening?”_

Peter yawns and pushes his book away. “I’m dying.” Johnny chokes on the other end of the line. “My history final is going to kill me. I can’t be bothered paying attention enough to remember all these dates.”

Sue is muffled and a touch hysterical in the background; “Johnny, Johnny—is he okay?”

_“He’s, er. He’s doing history homework?”_

_“Move over.”_

Peter shoves his history textbook back into his bag. There’s silence on the other end of the line, before Sue says into his ear, _“Spider-Man, what happened?”_

Peter blinks. “What?”

 _“Two days ago, you called us asking for backup. That had better not have been a prank call. It sure didn’t sound like one.”_ Sue swallows. _Oh,_ Peter thinks, a little stupefied, _she sounds frightened. “Are you alright?”_

“I’m sorry for worrying you.”

_“Please answer the question.”_

Peter exhales roughly The pleading quality to Sue’s voice is hard to stomach, and even harder to lie to. “I’m—yeah. I was in trouble, but Iron Man found me and got me out of there. I’m okay now.”

Johnny’s voice squeezes in next to Sue’s. _“Spidey, you’re not lying again, are you? Is this going to be like the time you came over for post-mission video games and lied about having broken ribs until I tried to wrestle you and you started choking?”_

“I didn’t lie about being injured,” Peter defends. “No one asked. You should learn not to tackle people.”

 _“Spider-Man,”_ Sue says slowly, _“are you injured?”_

“Erm,” Peter says. He played himself. “I… might be a little injured. Technically. Yes.”

Johnny groans like he’s in pain. Sue says, very gently, _“I’m sorry we weren’t there.”_

“I’m sorry for calling you guys up like that.”

Ben finds himself in the conversation, somehow. Reed must be busy steering them home. Peter wishes he hadn’t called Johnny. He may have been bloody, concussed, and certain he was about to be murdered, but now three quarters of the Fantastic Four are freaking out at him. Nothing is worth this.

 _“Kid,”_ Ben says, and Peter can hear the shaky worry in the gruff man’s words, _“what the actual fuck?”_

_“Ben!”_

_“Yeah, what the fuck, Spidey?”_

_“Johnny!”_

“Sorry,” Peter says again in lieu of an explanation. He flounders a little bit, fingers digging into his crumpled comforter. “I was panicking, and not thinking, but it’s okay because I didn’t actually die. All well that ends well.”

 _“You almost DIED?”_ says Johnny, at the same time as Sue says, “ _What the fuck?”_

No one calls her out on her swearing.

“Yeah, it was a whole thing.” Peter’s fist is beginning to tear his bedspread. Without anything else to say, a hot burn beginning to spread across his chest and up his throat into his cheeks, Peter repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Johnny exhales loudly. _“Don’t apologise, man.”_

 _“Spider-Man.”_ There’s something in Sue’s voice, something low and crackling, something pleading. _“Don’t shut us out like this. We’re here. We’re your friends. Please, tell us what happened.”_

He wets his lips. “The whole thing?”

 _“The whole thing,”_ Johnny begs, and Ben says, _“Everything. We can take it, kid.”_

Peter opens his mouth and the words fall out: “I went into Oscorp Tower because I knew someone was in danger. It was a trap. Green Goblin was waiting for me. He knocked me out, and when I woke up I was being held down, and he.” Peter takes in a shuddering breath. This isn’t the first time he’s said it out loud like this, but it still doesn’t feel like he’s doing the story justice. He’s saying too much, and yet not enough. “He was there. Above me. There was this thing around my neck—a shock collar but worse. I managed to get free, but Goblin’s a lot stronger than he looks, even in his meat suit.”

 _“Spidey,”_ Sue coaxes. _“What did he do?”_

“Just some choking, some light stabbing.”

Johnny’s voice cracks. _“You were_ stabbed?!”

“ _Lightly_ stabbed. I didn’t want to worry you.”

 _“Fucking christ,”_ Ben says.

_“And then?”_

“I got away. I couldn’t get back outside—I was too far underground and I was too injured and he was following me—but I managed to hide. I found a phone—” Peter cuts himself off. He gnaws at his bottom lip. He tastes like copper and the acidic burn of fear.

 _“Oh,_ ” Johnny says. His voice is very thick.

“I called someone else, too. They were beat up and couldn’t make it. I get why you’re supposed to RSVP these kinds of things, now.”

 _“We’re so sorry,”_ says Sue.

“In the fourth grade I threw this big birthday party and invited my whole class and no one came. I still cry about it in my diary, sometimes. That was much more traumatic than my superhero buddies ditching me because of conflicting schedules.”

The Four don’t scold him for rambling. Peter’s almost grateful.

“I’m sorry,” Peter says—can’t _stop_ saying—each breath an apology, “I shouldn’t get so worked up; Norman’s in prison, and everyone said they wouldn’t let it happen again, but I didn’t think it would happen the first time, either. I didn’t think he could really hurt me. I thought…”

 _I don’t feel safe,_ Peter realises. In the dark of his room, Aunt May asleep several rooms away, Norman behind bars several _suburbs_ away, Peter realises he hasn’t felt safe since Ben bled out beneath his wet, useless hands.

 

* * *

 

The Fantastic Four return to New York in the very early morning, just before dawn. Peter has turned his phone off, but he knows they’re back when a fiery streak tears through the night sky.

 _SORRY_ , Johnny writes in flaming cursive above New York. Then, when that message begins to dissipate into the air, he writes, _MEET AT ROOFTOP._ There’s a few minutes pause, and then Johnny tacks on, _PLEASE._

Peter reaches for his spare suit.

Their rooftop meeting place is above a skyscraper filled with offices. The street below has at least six different take out places they both enjoy. There’s a food vendor on the corner that Peter and Johnny are both on a first name basis with, even if his hot dogs taste vaguely of plastic.

Peter lands on the damp rooftop and Johnny looks up at him like he’s going to cry.

“Don’t cry,” Peter demands. Johnny nods his head frantically. “I’m serious. No more apologises either.”

“How about a manly handshake?”

Peter laughs, more hot air than anything substantial, but he’s smiling. “Only if it’s especially heterosexual.”

“The absolute straightest.” Peter offers his hand, but Johnny steps right past it and enfolds Peter into a hug. He wraps his long arms around Peter and pulls him close, almost lifting the shorter vigilante off his feet. Johnny must be taking lessons from Ben on how to hug. “I’m sorry.”

“You just broke two rules immediately,” Peter scolds, but he puts his hands on Johnny’s back. “Thanks for inviting me out here. I haven’t worn the spider suit since—y’know.”

Johnny pulls back. He presses a flip phone into Peter’s hand.

“Um,” Peter says. The flip phone is slim and black, and very outdated. “Thanks, but it’s 2017? I’m not really into the mid-2000s aesthetic.”

“That has my number in it, and the rest of the Four’s. Captain America, Iron Man, the Avengers Tower and the X-Mansion itself, Dr. Strange, Wolverine, Power Man and a bunch of other names I’m forgetting.” Peter stares at Johnny. The taller boy scratches at the back of his head. “It’s self-charging. I think Reed has back-ups if you accidentally break it, too.”

“I,” Peter falters.

“I’m glad you’re alright now.” Johnny doesn’t meet Peter’s gaze, studying the lopsided spider symbol sewn over Peter’s sternum. His spare suit isn’t the quality as his last. “And we all don’t want that happen to you again.”

The flip phone sits in the palm of Peter’s hand. It looks so small cradled there. It doesn’t match the gratitude expanding in Peter’s chest like a balloon, enormous and light all at once, blooming so enormously that there’s no room left for Peter’s lungs.

“I can’t believe this,” Peter says, “I get to prank call Captain America.”

“No,” Johnny breathes, “Wolverine.”

“He’s going to murder us.”

“What if we put on a funny voice and pretend to be Deadpool?”

“Deadpool would probably high-five us.”

“Pass. I don’t want Deadpool’s hand anywhere near mine.”

Peter and Johnny step off the side of the building together, swinging and floating to the ground respectfully. Johnny radiates warmth by his side. The vendor up ahead waves plastic sausages in the air. The smell of caramelised onions drifts through the air.

Peter slips the flip phone into his boot pocket.

 

* * *

 

 

The business card—complete with an address and fax number printed out on cheap card—had made _Nelson & Murdock_ seem so legitimate. Peter doesn’t know many people who have actual business cards they can hand out to potential clients.

In person, however, their office is even less impressive than Matt’s apartment had been. The floorboards creak underfoot. There’s bullet holes in the brick wall beside the office door.

It’s early, fair earlier than any business should be open. Peter came half-hoping it would be empty, but there’s a light on inside. His heart jumps.

He knocks and waits, fiddling with his hands.

A blond woman opens the door. “Oh!” she says when she sees Peter standing there in beat up sneakers and a ‘Han Solo shot first’ t-shirt. She opens the door wider, ushering him inside. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Peter touches his face. Right, the bruises. He needs to ask someone to re-apply the make-up for him before school. He hasn’t mastered make up himself yet.

“I’m fine,” Peter insists. “I’m just here to see…”

“Foggy, Matt!” The woman sticks her head into one of the officers. “I have someone here for you.”

Foggy calls, without any real heat, “Karen, I thought we agreed we weren’t seeing people before the sun was properly up?”

Karen casts another glance in Peter’s direction. He wishes he’d have another growth spurt already. Maybe then people would stop looking at him like he’s an abused puppy.

“You’re seeing this boy, Foggy Nelson,” Karen says. “And you’re taking his case.”

Foggy comes out of the office, and stills in the doorway. “Peter.”

“I hope I’m not intruding.” Peter shuffles his feet. “I wanted to apologise?”

Karen glares at Foggy over Peter’s head. Foggy puts his hands up defensively. “You have nothing to apologise for, Peter.”

Peter shakes his head. It had only been yesterday that he’d stormed out of that McDonalds with a hammering heart and sweaty palms, but it feels like it’s been so much longer. It’s only been a handful of days since Norman lured him into the bowels of Oscorp Tower, and just over a week since Green Goblin first confronted Peter in the fading afternoon and vowed he would be the one to kill him.

“I shouldn’t have gotten so upset.” He looks at Karen, and clears his throat. “I was just… really shaken when I saw Norman on TV. It was like I suddenly remembered that actually he existed, and that what happened was real.”

“I guess we’ve already taking his case,” Karen says to herself, a soft lilt to her voice. She gives off the same kind of light as Foggy, Peter thinks. Daredevil is so dark; who knew the vigilante could attract these kinds of people to his side? “I’m going to just… go get us some breakfast.” Karen excuses herself, and ducks out of the office.

Matt appears by Foggy’s shoulder. He’s cleaner than the last time Peter saw him, in an inexpensive suit and a pair of red glasses. He resembles a violent vigilante a lot less.

“We shouldn’t have gone after Osborn without your consent,” Matt says. Foggy nods along with him. “We should have at least given you a heads up.”

“Probably,” Peter allows. He scrubs a hand through his hair. “But I wasn’t brave enough to do anything about him. I thought I was, but… I just wanted to ignore the situation. I wanted to pretend Norman wasn’t out really there, because if I thought about it, about him grabbing me again, I wouldn’t be able to keep going on like everything was fine.”

“Come here.” Matt beckons him forward. Peter hovers in the doorway to the side office, one hand on the wooden frame. Paint is chipping beneath his palm.

Inside the squat office, three chairs are pulled around a messy desk. Boxes upon boxes are piled up around the office. Paperwork and stuffed folders peek out the top of the cardboard boxes and litter the desk. There are empty coffee mugs and old junk food containers lined up by the windowsill.

“You’re taking Norman’s case,” Peter says thickly.

Matt’s mouth thins into a tight line. “When we’re done with him, Osborn might never set foot in New York again.”

“Working with Stark’s top shot lawyers is frustrating,” Foggy confesses, “but we’re going to do everything we can to take Osborn down. He might have a lot of resources, but now, so do we.”

Peter lets out a shaky breath. “Did you even sleep last night?”

Foggy looks evenly back at Peter. “Did you?”

Instead of answering, Peter pulls the flip phone out of his jean pocket and presses it into Foggy’s hand.

“Um,” Foggy says. “Thank you?”

“It’s mine.” Peter tugs at his jacket sleeves. The sun is ascending in the morning sky; May will be awake soon, and wondering where he is. He can’t afford to miss school again today. “Not to make this weird or anything, but could I get your number? I already went ahead and put Matt’s in there.”

Foggy opens the phone. He scrolls through the contacts list, his eyebrows raised. “Do you have any idea how much this phone would fetch on ebay?” Matt nudges him, and Foggy clarifies, “Peter’s contacts are basically a ‘who’s who’ of the superhero community. There are alias on here I don’t even recognise.”

“It was a gift.” Peter shrugs, a little self-conscious. “The Fantastic Four are bigger worrywarts than people give them credit for.”

Foggy puts the awed expression away in favour of something softer, something more kinder and more pleased than Peter was ready for. Foggy puts his number into Peter’s phone quickly, and then double checks it over once, twice, and gives it back to its owner.

“If you have a problem,” Foggy says, “any problem, no matter what it is or what you think you might be doing, you call us, alright? Me or Matt. We’ll be here if you call.”

“Anyone on that phone would,” Matt tells him. “If it was you, someone would come.”

Shakily, with more emotion than he can give words to, Peter says, “Thank you.”

 


End file.
